TW01 The Ivanhoe Gambit NEW (6 page)

Hubert's jaw dropped in astonishment. He could have sworn that the tinker's aim was off.

"By God, the man's a devil, not an archer!" John swore in amazement, forgetting his annoyance with the tinker. "Any man who can shoot like that, I'll have in my service!"

He would have made the offer, only a mob charged out upon the field to congratulate one of their own, thrilling in a Saxon's victory over a Norman. When the tumult died down and the crowd dispersed, the black garbed tinker and his friend in lincoln green had disappeared. They did not show up to claim their prize. Vexed, John pronounced the man a craven coward and said that he hoped his Norman knights would make a better showing than his pathetic archers. Hubert left the field, looking miserable.

John flourished his truncheon and ordered the jousting to commence.

The Saxon boy was quite impressed with the tinker's performance. He could not contain his joy.

Lucas thought that Bobby had showed off just a bit too much. It had been risky. Obviously, the last arrow had been a guided one. Lucas conceded that Bobby had no choice, since the Norman archer's shot would have been impossible to beat any other way, but still, he hadn't liked it very much.

Fortunately, Bobby had been able to retrieve the arrow and melt away into the crowd. That, at least, had been prudent of him. The guided arrows were equipped with a fail-safe mechanism that would fry the circuitry inside the shaft if anyone was curious enough to examine them too closely, but he was still glad that Bobby had managed to get his arrow back and disappear. It had been an impossible shot. John might have decided to order him to duplicate it just to see if it was luck or skill. If it happened again, it would have been clear evidence of skill—superhuman skill. It was well to draw attention to themselves in order to curry sympathy with the locals and to flush out the renegade ref, but there was such a thing as carrying it a bit too far.

Now, his turn was coming up. Lucas decided to wait as long as possible to see how the competition shaped up. His nysteel armor would keep him fairly safe, but he could still be unhorsed and the whole idea was not to let that happen. He had no intention of risking a broken neck.

As the heralds announced the rules for the passage at arms, he sized up the other knights, watching as they were lifted up onto their horses. The rules were fairly simple. A challenger would ride through the lists to the opposing side and use his lance to touch the shield of the knight he wished to joust with. If he touched the shield with the butt end of the lance, then it was polite competition, lance points tipped with wood. It was still possible to be hurt, but at least the chances of getting skewered were somewhat diminished. However, if someone touched the shield of the knight he was challenging with the
tip
of his lance, then it was serious business. That meant either that he was bloodthirsty or that he had some personal grievance against the knight whom he was challenging, since then the joust would be carried out with untipped lances, like fencing with the buttons off the foils. For obvious reasons, most knights were polite to each other at tournaments. And for equally obvious reasons, the crowd simply loved it when shields were touched with tips of lances.

The first challenger rode out, heading toward the Norman side. The boy identified him for Lucas, engrossed in his role of play-by-play announcer and hamming it up to the hilt. Lucas wasn't paying very close attention. He wasn't interested in the challengers. They were not the ones he would have to fight. It was the home team he was watching.

The knight had crossed over to the Norman side and was slowly walking his horse past the pavillions, outside which the shields hung on upright poles. He hesitated at Front-de-Boeuf's shield, then smacked it with the butt end of his lance. He then returned to his side and waited until Front-de-Boeuf took his position. The fanfare sounded and both knights set spurs to their horses and thundered toward each other from opposite sides of the field. They entered the lists and dropped their lances into position.

Lucas noticed that Front-de-Boeuf dropped his lance fairly early, telegraphing his aim. They came together with a clash and clatter and Front-de-Boeuf nailed his challenger so hard upon his shield, directly in its center, that the knight was unhorsed immediately. Front-de-Boeuf took a hit himself, but he was built like the figure on his shield and although he swayed in his saddle slightly, he kept his seat. Home team 1, Visitors 0.

Two men at arms ran out carrying a wooden litter, but the challenger waved them off. He made an attempt to get up on his own, couldn't manage the weight of his armor and had to be assisted to his feet.

He stumbled about like a drunk for a moment or two, then allowed the men at arms to lead him off the field, supporting him. He was given some appreciative applause.

The next challenger out touched the shield belonging to De Bracy. Lucas decided that this one, the mercenary, would bear close scrutiny. Men did not hire themselves out as mercenaries unless they damn well knew what they were doing. De Bracy rode out briskly to meet his challenger. There was a tension in his bearing, not a nervousness, but a tension of anticipation. A man who liked to brawl.

He stared across at his challenger, nodded to him, the other man returned the gesture and then they both dropped their visors and took a running start. Lucas saw that De Bracy waited until the last possible moment to position his lance properly and he held his shield just a bit high, for which he soon saw the reason. As the two knights came together, De Bracy gave his upper body a slight twist in toward his opponent, using his shield to mask the movement. He really needn't have bothered with the subtle ploy.

His challenger had decided to try for a head shot, the most difficult target. He missed completely and De Bracy tumbled him to the ground easily. The crowd gave him a cheer and Lucas noticed that once again Cedric's section refrained from applauding.

Next came the Templar, Bois-Guilbert. The fighting priest. It always fascinated Lucas how many men of religion were able to preach Christ's doctrine and then go out and bathe in blood on His account, such as the warrior pope, Julian. Believe in peace and love or else I'll kill you, Lucas thought. It was an old refrain. To get a closer look at Bois-Guilbert, Lucas pretended to put on his helmet in order to check the fittings. He lowered the visor over his eyes and dialed in some magnification.

The Templar was good looking in a dark and swarthy sort of way and he had the meanest eyes Lucas had ever seen. He would have given Attila a run for his money in the "if looks could kill"

department. Then Priest noticed something funny about his lance.

The wood that covered the tip had a faint, hairline crack in it. And a tiny portion of the lance's tip showed through. The moment that contact was made the wood would neatly splinter and the point of the lance would be driven home. It would all look like an accident.

The trumpets sounded, both knights spurred and galloped at each other. Bois-Guilbert's horse was a heavy, muscular charger that had a definite advantage of height over most of the other mounts. He would be forcing his opponents to strike up, thereby placing them at a bit of a disadvantage. Also, his shield with the skull-toting raven on it was oversized and heavy. Nothing wrong with that, but it showed that this was a man who gave himself every possible advantage. Not that Lucas could fault him for that, with Bobby's trick arrows and his own nysteel armor.

Bois-Guilbert came in like a juggernaut, holding his shield low and his head down. Lucas couldn't find any fault in his technique. It seemed letter perfect. He caught his challenger behind the shield, squarely in the chest. The knight was lifted straight out of his saddle. Predictably, the wood broke and when the men at arms rushed out to give aid to the fallen knight, they found him to be quite dead.

And that seemed to be that. There were still other challengers, but having seen the strength of the home team, none of them were particularly anxious to try their luck. The remaining Norman knight, de la Croix, sat unhelmeted astride a chestnut stallion. The red knight looked vaguely bored. Lucas waited until they called for challengers two more times and then decided that it was time. No one else was going to take a crack at it. He told Hooker to pay the kid and send him on his way, then he went behind his tent and mounted up. He didn't need any help getting on his horse. The nysteel armor was considerably more sophisticated than that worn by the other knights. He took his lance and shield from Hooker, had him give his horn a martial toot and then he was off.

There was some muttering in the stands as he appeared, which was predictable. No one had the faintest idea who he was. Lucas was all in white, upon a white stallion, which amused him since he was supposed to be one of the good guys. On his shield, there was a somewhat druidic looking device, a leafy green oak with its roots exposed, as though it had been torn up out of the ground. He guided his Arabian through the lists by pressure of his knees and rode past all the Norman pavilions, pretending to give each shield a brief, cursory glance. He had already made up his mind, however. It wasn't what he would have liked to do, but it was the strategically advantageous move. Any one of the Norman knights he had seen could give him trouble on this assignment and he wasn't looking for trouble. Besides, Bobby had set him a good example and a hard act to follow. He raised his lance, set spurs to his stallion and galloped down the line, knocking each shield off its pole with the tip of his lance.

The crowd cheered wildly and many yelled encouragement to the white knight as he rode back to his side of the field. Up until that time, with the sole exception of the exhibition put on by the tinker, it had been a pretty dull show. No blood, except for the hapless knight unhorsed by Bois-Guilbert. Now the tournament would get truly interesting. It was a shame that this white knight would be killed, but they would applaud and cheer his bravery.

"This white knight is unfamiliar to me," John said to Fitzurse. "Do you know him, Waldemar?"

John's dignified looking minister, senior to the prince by twenty years, leaned forward so that he could speak into the prince's ear.

"The device upon his shield is one unknown to me, Sire. Possibly he may not be from these parts."

"An oak, uprooted," John mused. "What would that mean?"

"Perhaps it is meant to suggest that the knight has, himself, been uprooted from his homeland," said Fitzurse. "That appears to be a stout English oak. Perhaps he is a Saxon, one of those who went off to war on Saladin with your noble brother."

"If he is one of Richard's brood, then it is just as well that he has chosen untipped lances. It seems he has no great desire to live. If that be so, then we'll accommodate him. Front-de-Boeuf will uproot him from his saddle soon enough."

Both knights took their places and Front-de-Boeuf lifted his visor to the other knight. The white knight sat immobile at the far end of the field, his snowy stallion pawing at the ground. He refused to show his face. With a curse, Front-de-Boeuf slapped down his visor.

"Rude fellow, this new knight," said de la Croix to Bois-Guilbert.

"Some ill bred Saxon pig, no doubt, more fit to be a swineherd than a knight. Front-de-Boeuf will teach him courtly manners."

The trumpets sounded and both knights charged the lists. Front-de-Boeuf's lance splintered on the white knight's shield and both knight and horse went down, Front-de-Boeuf struck keenly on the head.

The horse got up, Front-de-Boeuf did not. The men at arms carried the dead Norman off the field.

Cedric's section cheered themselves hoarse.

"Somewhat aggressive, these Saxon swineherds," said de la Croix, laconically.

The Templar spat upon the ground. "God smiles on fools and idiots," he said. "It was pure chance and ill luck for Front-de-Boeuf. Well, let the Saxons cheer their champion for a time. Maurice will lay him low."

The white knight returned to his side of the field and waited for De Bracy to take his position. De Bracy rode forward on his gray, helmetless. He sat and waited to see if the white knight would show him the courtesy of revealing his features, but the man made no move to lift his visor. De Bracy sat still, waiting. Finally, his patience broke and he called for his helmet.

"I'll knock the bastard's head off for him," he mumbled as his squire stood upon a wooden platform, putting on his helmet.

The trumpets blew and De Bracy was off like a shot, once again waiting until the last possible moment to couch his lance. Once again, the white knight took the blow on his shield, splintering De Bracy's lance while his own struck the gold knight in the shoulder, tumbling him from his horse and ending the tournament for him. The crowd went wild. De Bracy was on his feet in a moment, but there was blood on his armor where the lance had penetrated.

"It seems the leeches will be busy this day," said de la Croix in the same disinterested tone.

"Then I'll see to it that the gravediggers have more work, as well," said Bois-Guilbert, as he allowed his squire to put on his helmet. He rode out to take his place and did not do the white knight the courtesy of showing his face, matching rudeness for rudeness. The white knight touched his gauntleted hand to his visor in a casual salute, which only served to infuriate the Templar even more.

"Salute away, you Saxon pig," he mumbled. "You'll be saluting angels in a moment."

The trumpets blared and they were off, hurtling at each other at full tilt.

Lucas felt annoyed, to say the least. There was a tricky little gadget hidden in the tip of his lance that allowed it to fire a sonic burst, quick and very lethal. The only problem was that, when he dispatched Front-de-Boeuf with it, it did the job quite admirably and then ceased to function on the spot. Lousy army gear, thought Lucas. Trust it to break when you need it most. He thanked God he still had his armor and his shield. The nysteel was impregnable. Still, he had lost a good deal of his edge.